Breaking the Vicious Circle
by debunker
Summary: Takes place after "The Great Game" Sherlock and Moriarty are having an affair. Mycroft wants it to stop. Can he make Sherlock do what he should do?


The moment he came into the room he knew who was there. The unforgettable smell of his perfume, his body heat he could always feel even through his expensive suit, the tickle it gave to his senses, a mix of unstoppable lust and danger. The room was full of his presence, with him standing immovable in the middle of it with his back towards the door, hands in his pockets, legs slightly straddled, his shoes shining mildly in the dim moonlight entering through the gap between the blinds. He did not move, just his head cocked slightly back with satisfaction.  
\- What are you doing here? – Sherlock whispered, closing the door hastily, trying to stay as silent as possible, old habits die hard. Even if Watson was not here Sherlock still had him in his mind picture of the house.  
\- Couldn't resist coming. – Moriarty turned to face Sherlock who was in front of him, his long legs covered the distance in few steps.  
He took a second to look in his somewhat dreamy eyes, their ever changing color hypnotizing him. Was Jim a little bit high? He could not tell and actually he didn't care pressing himself impatiently against his chest in a needy kiss. They could never get enough, it was a deep well they were sinking in. Moriarty's fingers were now opening hungrily the buttons of Sherlock's shirt, his one-button jacket already open. Sherlock was undoing Jim's tie, oh, that moment than he would snatch it triumphantly to toss it on the floor. Last time he used it to bend Moriarty's eyes making him come in his mouth just after a brief stimulation. He could still remember his taste and he wanted it again.  
This mutual undressing, shaky hands, kissing and biting and pushing each other towards the bed, this hunger – was it because Moriarty should not be here, officially being dead and gone for a long time? How could this be they were getting all hot and lustful at the sight of each other in this dusty room? Or was it the kick they got knowing they could potentially kill each other during or after sex? Was each of them actually trying to distract the enemy, to distract and to disarm?

Once Sherlock woke up only to find naked Moriarty sitting over his chest with the gun pressed against his heart. Moriarty was staring at him intensely, waiting for him to wake up. When he saw Sherlock's eyes open he moved the gun to his front, his hand firm, no hint of blinking in his eyes. Sherlock felt no fear that moment, only some sick curiosity. Will we play the Russian roulette? Will he shoot me right out? Will he shoot himself like he tried to on the rooftop? He saw Moriarty's lower lip start momentarily and he could not resist sliding his hand long his thigh up to his sensitive belly feeling Moriarty's body hair stand up under his hand. Such a tantalizing view. He grabbed him pulling him closer to his mouth. Giving him head, suffocating under his weight, tensing under his gun, was one of the most exciting experiences Sherlock had with him. He remembered Moriarty coming hard against his throat, riding him, pushing fiercely, filling him with hot pearly semen, propping himself against the wall during his last thrust, his eyes squeezed, mouth trembling. He flipped him down after, taking the gun from his hand and tossing it on the floor, to kiss him hard, making his taste his own come, Moriarty's body feeling docile and warm under his hands.  
And here it was again, sliding against Sherlock's body, sleek and fresh. He has already freed Moriarty of his suit and shirt, their shoes and socks lying next to the bed. He loved the moment when he opened Moriarty's trousers, that look on his face, that cheeky grin, anticipation, abandon, the knowing of the irreversible. Sliding his hands inside it, licking Moriarty's ear, biting the earlobe, pulling it with his teeth, he shuddered with pleasure feeling Moriarty's long cock, hard and pulsing under his fingers, free of any pants tonight.  
\- Were too impatient to dress properly? – Sherlock kissed him slowly, their tongues brushing and pushing.  
\- I knew the pants would be of no use tonight, - Moriarty hummed biting his right nipple a little, teasing it, knowing it would make Sherlock almost leak.  
Sherlock went moaning under his hands and mouth, rubbing his fingers over the tip of Moriarty's cock, pulling it out of his trousers.  
\- No rush, - Moriarty stopped his hand squeezing it hard and stood up leaving his trousers on the floor just to lower himself over Sherlock again, undoing his belt, massaging his rock-hard erection through his clothes.  
Sherlock was thrusting his hips up showing his eagerness, his eyes lit up with desire, his mouth wet as he licked his lips. Moriarty took off his belt, winding it around his hand, looking cunningly into Sherlock's questioning eyes.  
\- In case you misbehave, - his voice was low as his head followed down long Sherlock's chest and belly, his hands taking off Sherlock's trousers and black boxers altogether, freeing his throbbing cock. His touch was light and teasing.  
Sherlock felt the wetness of Moriarty's hot mouth on his balls as they slid inside caressed and teased by the savvy tongue. Sherlock loved this sensation, it always gave him chills of filthy excitement. Moriarty was good to never actually make him come like that, bringing him to the point of being desperate however. Watching Sherlock like that, unleashed and hungry, made Moriarty so possessive. He wanted all of him, drinking into his moans when their bodies touched each other, sucking in deeper, covering Sherlock's skin with his saliva. He loved how clean and pleasant to touch Sherlock always was, they felt no boundaries, all the roads were open, they never thought a second before starting it, the attraction was so natural.

Sherlock was slow the first time, shocked and excited when pushed inside Moriarty's car a couple of weeks after his presumable death. He stared at him with suspense, their bodies close to each other on the leather seat, the back part divided from the driver's part with the reflective glass.  
\- Sur-prise, - Moriarty sang softly. – Don't tell mommy, - he leaned closer and Sherlock already knew what it was for.  
They made out right in the car, fighting and thrusting trying to hurt each other, Sherlock finally getting on top of his enemy who let him do this a little bit too easily. Sherlock wondered whether it was to say sorry or to please himself being taken with rage.  
Before he could take his way he had to pull a certain object off Moriarty's entrance making him gasp a little. The plug had the shape of a mini-Sherlock figurine.  
\- Mockery not to be permitted. – Sherlock grabbed his hips firmly giving him a vibrant slap.  
Moriarty grinned with satisfaction.  
\- Another little touch. Anything to please you. – He wriggled his arse getting closer to Sherlock standing behind him, his right knee on the seat.  
\- Brace yourself, - he started pushing himself inside, - it's coming! – his breath was racing and he started thrusting.

After that time Moriarty started popping up here and there, suddenly out of nothing, sometimes bringing Sherlock to a secret location or visiting his house. Sherlock was half-tempted to tell the police and Mycroft he's got Moriarty but then he knew there was a risk that their little parties would stop and he was not ready yet.  
He was getting more and more involved, sinking into the deep waters of lust, intellectual challenge, stupid fun, drugs occasionally. With Jim it was different each time and each time it was exciting.  
A couple of months ago they got so obsessed they spent a weekend in a house on the shore somewhere in Scotland, playing chess completely stoned, fucking desperately all over the place, Sherlock demonstrating he could walk firewalk pulling coals from the fireplace. They got drunk, they got high, Moriarty still keeping clear head and talking Sherlock into some bondage with a huge rope. He loved the sight of his body bent to the armchair. Rubbing himself against him, making him hard, unable to move and leaving him there, aching and angry to come back some time after to start it all over bringing Sherlock to the edge of desperation.  
They were lying at night in silence, only hearing the sea.  
\- I could get you buried in the sand with your head up and leave you waiting for the tide. – Moriarty's voice was sleepy and lazy as he cozied himself next to Sherlock.  
They slept tight, their bodies tangled under a huge comforter.

Sherlock could not bear the stimulation any longer, hot waves coming close to the edge of his mind, his body eager to be taken.  
Moriarty knew his reaction well. He looked at him, his mouth red and wet. Sherlock loved that mouth, such a sexy one, the thought of what it has just done to him making him sweat happily. Moriarty looked like Dracula to him: pale skin, black hair and this flushed needy mouth. He'd let him drink his blood.  
\- Position switch. – Moriarty made a gesture with his index finger showing Sherlock to flip.  
He obeyed lifting his buttocks, putting a cushion under his belly. He knew he looked delectable like that and how much this position turned Moriarty on. He could not wait feeling his hands, his weight, his cock on his body.  
\- Oh, look…. – Moriarty drawled. – Such a nice view. Could it be nicer? Let's see.  
And with these words he hit Sherlock with the belt across his buttocks, the buckle squeezed in his hand. Sherlocked moaned and moved himself up eager to get more. He did not really feel pain, just the hot strip on his skin, so close to his sensitive parts.  
\- Want some more? – Moriarty hit him again and again. When he could not control himself any longer, he knelt behind Sherlock, finding for the lube they always had in the bedside table drawer, spreading it generously over Sherlock's buttocks, his hole, his balls, squeezing his cock with his wet hand giving it a couple of shots making Sherlock beg to be taken right now. His request was satisfied immediately.  
With each wet thrust, slapping his pelvis against Sherlock's supple arse Moriarty felt like he was not there anymore, his mind floating, his body weightless only his cock heavy as lead. The hot grip of Sherlock's body around it was tightening as Sherlock himself was coming towards the climax. His gorgeous hair shoving against the bedsheet, his hands scratching Moriarty's thighs, his breath heavy and silenced against the bed. Moriarty knew only few thrust were left before he would come in ecstasy and he knew Sherlock was close to. He needed this to be intense. So then Sherlock lifted his head a little making blood rush down his face Moriarty flang on the belt made in a loop over Sherlock's neck, pulling it mercifully, making Sherlock twitch, pacing up, watching him gasping for air, trying to take the belt off his neck with no success. Moriarty made the last desperate thrust feeling like falling down in the verve of his orgasm with agonizing Sherlock ejaculating in front of him, standing on his knees, almost pressed against Moriarty's chest, eyes popping with panic and intense pleasure. He loosened his grip after a while letting Sherlock fall down while withdrawing from him, lowering himself on top of his lover, caressing his shoulder, kissing his neck over the belt.  
It took them some time to regain their breath, Sherlock pulling off the belt with shaking hands, closing his eyes exhausted.  
They said nothing to each other falling asleep side by side after a quick clean-up.

Sherlock woke up a couple of hours later and went to the kitchen with a bedsheet on.  
He needed some water and a check of his neck in the bathroom mirror. There was a reddish strip across it which would eventually fade away, but now the skin was a little bit damaged, the sensation of the lack of air still vivid in his memory, exciting and terrifying.  
He was ready to get back to sleep when crossing the kitchen he noticed a shadow of a man sitting by the table he usually had breakfast at.  
\- Mycroft? – Sherlock rushed to him grabbing his arm. – What are you doing here?  
Mycroft seemed completely at his ease, nothing embarrassed him. He had Sherlock's violin in his hands looking at it with no expression.  
\- The question, Sherlock, is what are you doing here? – he stood up shaking off his brother's grip with nonchalance.  
\- Get out now, - Sherlock pushed him towards the door snapping the violin out of his hands. – Let me sleep.  
\- Sherlock, - Mycroft sneered, - none of us can rest until the man in your bedroom sleeps forever. – He handed Sherlock a violin string. Sherlock thought he'd better have taken a spare one. – You know what to do, we've talked about it. It can't go on forever.  
And then he left, cool as always, his head slightly rocking to the rhythm of his thoughts.  
Sherlock got back to bed, numb and angry. He got cold and wanted to warm himself up leaning against Moriarty who always was hot like a purring cat. He looked at the string in his hand, he knew how to use it with Moriarty. He gazed at his face, beautiful traces, pronounced and sculptured. He placed his hands with the string strained gripped in his fists over Moriarty's neck, pressing lightly into the flesh. Could he do this now? Sherlock hesitated. He knew he was supposed to kill Moriarty since Mycroft learnt they were seeing each other and not being able to get him otherwise. He had a chance to stop it, it all was up to him, so much at stake. Government involved, killers involved, Sherlock used as a decoy. But was he supposed to hunt down himself now?  
Suddenly Moriarty opened his eyes abruptly, still immovable, staring at Sherlock, at the pained expression of his face.  
\- You'll regret doing this, you know, - Moriarty shook his head, crinkling uncomfortably against the string.  
\- Will I? – Sherlock pressed it down harder, testing himself, trying to understand if he ever could really hurt Moriarty bad enough.  
\- Yes, - Moriarty slid a finger across Sherlock's lips. Strangely enough Sherlock wanted to kiss it, it felt sad, and longing, and knowing something about him, something important. – You will. You will miss me.  
Their eyes glowing in the dark were full of everything they've got, the intense feeling of being connected. Sherlock knew he would not be able to walk away from it, not even after Moriarty's death. Should he try to break the vicious circle now? He had no answer.


End file.
